


we were moving mountains long before we knew we could; or 'the story of lara barton'

by prairiehawkcompanion (Gemz0rz)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, I'm probably buying things I don't need on Amazon, So..., and if you're here to bitch about the spelling of her name I've got to tell you..., or out on a date, or walking my dogs, probably best not to waste your time x, surprisingly in LOVE with this woman so haters to the left plz+ty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemz0rz/pseuds/prairiehawkcompanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles, long and short, centering on Lara Barton. These will be nonlinear, and each chapter will be standalone. Relevant info/warnings will be in the summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. close to you

**Author's Note:**

> ship(s): Lara/Clint  
> warnings: none apply  
> chapter rating: G

"Did I get the time difference right?" he said by way of introduction.

"Why? What time is it there?" she whispered, thankful she'd through to silence her phone as she'd rocked Lila to sleep.

"2 AM."

"Oh, _Clint_." He'd probably just gotten off duty, or was preparing to begin it, and either way he'd thought to call her. Lila snuffled in her crib, wiggling beneath her blanket. Clint still didn't know what she looked like, or how her downy hair stuck up, soft and fine, at all hours of the day and night. She shifted the phone to her other hand as she reached to smooth it down. "Yeah, baby, you got it right. Did Phil mention when he's bringing you home to me?"

It was always his first name, though she'd never met Phillip Coulson. Security reasons -- no one could know the location of the farm, not with the children in the picture now. She'd been adamant about that.

But Clint talked about him sometimes. Sometimes it was a passing remark about his boss, and she knew he didn't see enough of the Director to mean him. Sometimes it was after days of quiet following a particularly rough mission, and then it always had the soft patina of awe around it. Sometimes it was to complain that the man only drank Fresca, and thus had the only office with security features that made it worth breaking into but none of the spoils. It was obvious Clint loved him, and so by extension, Lara did too.

Because whoever's fault it was that they'd needed her archer halfway around the world the day she'd gone into labour, she was pretty sure it wasn't Phil's.

"Tell him we'll name the next one after him if he gives you the keys to the Quin," she joked quietly, turning up the baby monitor as she tiptoed from the room. Clint's signature snort on the end of the tinny line made her cheeks hurt with the sudden smile it brought on.

"Yeah, I'll do that." There was a slight pause and some muffled voices in the background, and Lara knew what was coming. "Listen, I've gotta run. You kiss that kid for me, alright? Both of em."

"Yeah," she agreed quickly. "Stay safe, ok?"

"Not my job," he replied, same as he always did. Before she could answer, either he had to go or the line gave out, and she was left with a very expensive mobile reduced to a flat dial tone.

"...I know, baby."


	2. to begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ship(s): Lara/Clint  
> warnings: none apply  
> chapter rating: G

Lara pushed the cart, trainers squeaking against the industrial tile floor as she watched in awe. The man in front of her loped along, oblivious. In fact, it was a full ten minutes before Clint realised.

"...What?"

Lara looked from him to the contents of their cart in disbelief.

"You eat like a six-year-old, that's what!"

"Yeah." he grinned, not embarrassed in the least. "'Cept for the coffee." There were two enormous drums of it stacked in one corner, which was just fine with her; she was pretty serious about the stuff, herself. The rest of it, though...

"I didn't even realise they still _made_ Cookie Crisp," she murmured, watching him in front of the freezer case as the most serious deliberation she'd ever witnessed involving Hot Pockets took place. His frown lines deepened as he looked from one to the other, and she rolled her eyes, nudging him with the end of the cart.

"Get them both. It's not like they expire this century."

Clint grinned in a way that promised to make up for the way her microwave would smell like Ultimate Supreme Pizza Hot Pocket for days.

"You're too good to me, baby."

Lara just rolled her eyes, biting down a grin as she watched him painstakingly select the Poptarts with the highest sugar/colouring ratio (Wildberry with Sprinkles) and a quart of something that wasn't legally allowed to be referred to as 'lemonade' in 7 states, due to the complete absence of lemons anywhere in its recipe. Eventually she had to clear her throat.

"I do actually need room for celery in this cart, Clint."

The archer looked horrified.

"Why?"

\---

Two months later, when the cravings hit, she'd never been so damned happy to see PopTarts in all her life.


	3. wild divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ship(s): Lara+Clint  
> warnings: none apply  
> chapter rating: G

Lara kicked at a patch of weeds, pollen streaking the toe of her boot. The family dog loped along beside her, his skinny tail bobbing from side to side as they walked. The tractor threw shade in the field where there was none, and on a whim she followed the tracks it had left, leaning easily against the warm metal of its body.

"-- Oh."

The man in the seat wasn't someone she recognised, and she blinked at him sitting there in the drivers seat. The wind blew her hair into her eyes, the ends falling a good two inches above her shoulders. Regulation length. Habit by now.

"Hey," the man rumbled, clearly as surprised by her presence as she was by his. "Clint." As a rule, he didn't do last names with people who didn't need them. The farmer's daughter hardly qualified.

"Lara," she replied, noting the shirt he'd slung over the back of the seat and trying not to notice the deeply tanned skin revealed by its absence. "Sure hope you're wearing sunblock."

Of all the things he'd expected her to say, that wasn't it. He smiled despite himself.

"I'll remember tomorrow," he promised, and he actually thought he might.

In hindsight, that was when he should've gone back to work. Or at least tried to turn the engine over on the overheated tractor now that the sun had slipped a fraction lower. Instead, he noted her posture from the corner of his eye; the farmer's daughter was more than she seemed in her jeans and faded tank and hiking boots.

"Navy?" he asked out of anything but politesse.

"National Guard," she admitted, not much surprised he'd noticed. She did too, sometimes, in the line at the grocery store or around town. It was just something you picked up on when you'd been in those sorts of boots. "You?"

Clint had been with SHIELD now for about six months; the definitely counted as military from his point of view. But he couldn't say that, so he just nodded.

"Army."

She nodded, probably congratulating herself on being right -- and the next thing he knew, she had one hand on the frame to steady herself as she ducked her head in to check the dials.

"Overheated," he explained, but she was already moving.

"Sensor's just broken," she informed him, reaching for the clasp to pop the hood. The metal threw a shadow over her face that made her look younger than he hoped she was.

_Goin' to hell..._ he thought, hesitating only a moment before sliding out of the seat.

"If you just cool it here --" She dumped the remainder of her bottle of water down the side of the engine. "It should stop beeping at you." His dubious look was obvious, and she rolled her eyes as she capped her now-empty bottle. "I checked it all myself, not that I expect that to mean much to you." Her sass face was as unexpected as it was effective, and he warmed like a Peep in a microwave -- which was to say, he didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell against this woman.

"...Radiator, water pump, housings, gaskets, plugs. The block is solid. She'll run just fine." She blinked at him, clearly expecting to have been interrupted already.

"I believe you," he hurried to clarify, running a hand against the back of his neck. Sunblock was definitely a good idea. He wondered for a moment if she took her own advice, and a fleeting glance suggested she did -- though the absence of tan lines did nothing to hinder his imagination. "Hop on. I'll drive you back."

For a moment, she looked like she was going to argue just for the sake of it. It was obvious she'd spent her life convincing people to take a chance on her. But he just glanced pointedly at her empty water bottle, and her eyes met his.

"Alright."

He nodded, moving back for the seat.

" -- But I'm driving."

Of course she was.


	4. about farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: discussion of canon character "death"  
> chapter rating: G

The funny thing about government crises was the lack of communication. Lara would never expect real-time updates -- much as it hurt to admit, there were bigger things in the world than her immediate knowledge of her husband's wherabouts.

But it had been 46 hours now since Manhattan.

She'd slept a little. Her mom had the kids, which couldn't be easy on her -- but then, it wasn't easy on any of them.

She'd cleaned the kitchen. Or, she'd cleaned most of the kitchen. By the time she'd gotten halfway through the dishes, it seemed like a good idea to hurl a glass at the door just to watch it shatter. To feel effective.

She'd left the rest of the dishes as they were. They were still in the sink now.

It was hour 62 when she heard the growl of a motor outside. There were lines on her cheek from the material of the sofa pillow as she stalked to the window, ready to hide from the paper delivery man. When he'd come yesterday (two days ago? what day was it?,) he asked if she'd been crying. She hadn't thought she was, but it seemed like such bad luck to give him a concrete reason, so she'd shrugged and smiled and chalked it up to a rough week. She'd closed the door after, resolving to ignore it until Clint walked up the steps.

A glance through the window sheers confirmed it was _not_ the paper deliverer in her drive.

" _Natasha_!" She'd called the woman's name before she'd even gotten the door open, barefoot, the shock of red hair among the green of the grass like a herald. But she'd stopped, one hand on the railing of the stairs, as she laid eyes on Clint. He was safe and sound -- and still somehow wrong. Even she could see that.

But his face crumpled into that smile she'd fallen for back when it had less lines around it, and he brushed Natasha away so he could limp toward her. It wouldn't have been noticeable at all if she wasn't so familiar with the gait of his step -- but it didn't seem to bother him as he gathered her up, and she promptly forgot about it. One sure hand cradled the back of her head, and she fit herself against him without a care for their audience. There in the cage of his arms, she'd felt smaller than she'd ever felt.

She doesn't know how long they stood there, only that Natasha didn't make a single noise of impatience and that Clint's hold on her didn't waver for a long, long moment.

When he finally pulled back, she watched his eyes -- that colour she'd never been able to name -- and saw the loss there. Clint's lips thinned, recognising the question on the tip of her tongue, and shook his head.

"I'm gonna --"

"Yeah."

She watched him walk into the house then, unsure why she wasn't following. Natasha waited until she soft close of the screen door before she spoke.

"Coulson," the woman informed her gently.

"Hmm?" Lara turned back to the redhead, addled by lack of sleep and the sheer joy of seeing Clint home in one piece. "Oh, no."

"It was a hard hit for a lot of people," Natasha informed her. The _'myself included'_ went unspoken, but Lara heard it plain as day.

"I'm so sorry."

Natasha's lips twitched; she liked Clint's wife, but platitudes held nothing for her right now. There were bigger issues at hand.

"He had a rough time of it," she continued, lifting her chin to where Clint had trailed into the house. "Probably better if you talk to him about it. If you can get him to talk."

Lara nodded distractedly, already itching to hold him again, to reassure them both that he had faced _aliens_ and come back to her.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely, reaching for Natasha's hand. She'd been worried about the woman, but knowing she'd be close to where Clint was had helped.

Natasha held on for a moment, fingers tight and sure in Lara's.

"Don't thank me yet. I've got to pick him up in 36 hours for debrief, and I can't say how long that will take. Fury just thought, in the meantime..." She waved a hand at the house illustratively.

"Well, whoever thought... thank you."

Natasha nodded, slipping her hand free as she headed back to the sleek black car she'd pulled up in, boots barely denting the soft earth. She waved once before ducking behind tinted windows and pulling off down the dirt road. Lara watched her go, taking a moment to thank whoever was listening that her husband was home. Tangible. _Safe_.

And then she turned and walked into their house, silently beginning the countdown again. 36 hours would never be enough, but it was a start.


End file.
